


Prom Sucks!

by VenusMonstrosa



Series: he is half of my soul, as the poets say [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Anyways, I mean I guess its technically underage because Steve is a few months shy of 18, M/M, Meet-Cute, Oral Sex, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Prom, Semi-Public Sex, They're in the same grade but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-23
Updated: 2018-05-24
Packaged: 2019-05-12 23:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14737499
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VenusMonstrosa/pseuds/VenusMonstrosa
Summary: “Is this a stupid end-of-year prank?”“Jesus, Steve, you think I’d do that?”





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> it's prom season and i am in university but i love to procrastinate on studying for my summer semester midterms. that's all i have to say for myself.
> 
> \- beta'd by arlo who for some reason refuses to make an ao3 account (let's peer pressure them)

Steve is going stag to prom, which is fine—he and Peggy promised to go together if they were both still single in senior year, then she met the drama club president, and there was no one he’d trust with her more than Angie Martinelli—but it does leave him with the unpleasant decision of either standing alone for the group photos, or missing them completely. He leans towards the latter, as it saves him several hours of awkwardness that would be the cherry on top of four unremarkable, uneventful years.

Honestly, if he could get away with skipping it altogether, he’d go for that option instead. Steve wasn’t especially popular or well-liked outside of his small friend group and the art club he runs, something to do with being a queer disabled kid whose mouth gets him into fights his body can’t keep up with, so it seems like a superfluous way to say goodbye to people that he mostly ignores or is ignored by. But his friends surprised him last minute with a ticket, and that was that. For their sake, he’d endure this arbitrary teenage rite of passage, if only to see who gets kicked out of the venue for being wasted.

Steve gets on the subway in his navy secondhand tux, lovingly tailored by his mother to a stylish slim fit, and ends up at Natasha’s house with just enough time to catch a ride with everyone else.

“You’re an idiot. And you missed the snacks and pre-gaming.” She hisses at him, shoving him into the backseat of the limo and aggressively straightening his bowtie. “We’re _all_ taking pictures when we get there, and you’ll be in them whether you like it or not.”

Steve bats her hands away. “It’s not a big deal.”

“You know he gets camera-shy.” Sam says gently, climbing in and sliding into the seat next to Natasha. They look striking together, her tight dress and his suit jacket a matching deep red. Angie and Peggy follow, in yellow and emerald green, respectively, kissing Steve on the cheek and kindly wiping lipstick off his face after.

“Do you have _product_ in your hair?” Peggy quirks an eyebrow, and Steve gives a half shrug and resists the urge to run his fingers through it. He spent so long combing it into place, after all. Not that he cares.

“Please, Steve.” Natasha insists. “If we’re all going away to different colleges in the fall, we need all the memories we can get.”

She’s right, which is the worst part. They have a whole summer ahead of them, but they’ll be parting ways come August. Natasha and Sam are headed to DC, Peggy’s set to go back to England, and Steve secured a decent scholarship to NYU. He has a good amount saved up but he’ll still have to work part-time to get through all four years. In any case, it’s close to home so he doesn’t have to move out and pay rent. It’s worth it, he knows it is, but being several hours away from everyone he cares about is a tough pill to swallow.

“Let’s just have fun tonight, okay?” He tries for a smile. “I’ll even dance at some point. I promise. Scout’s honour.”

Natasha narrows her eyes at him. “You were never a Boy Scout.”

“Maybe I woulda been if they weren’t homophobic!” He snaps, but quickly reins himself back in. “Sorry, forget it—you guys still doing brunch at that fancy French place tomorrow?”

“Should be.” Sam says. “You coming?”

“Yeah. I’m cutting out early tonight, but I’ll be there.” He already decided to skip out on the after party to catch an early train back to Brooklyn, but he could agree to an overpriced croissant in the morning. “Save me a seat.”

A few more couples get into the limo with them, friends and friends of friends, and they blast music and sip champagne as Natasha barks at the driver to step on it. The drive through Manhattan is held up by evening rush hour traffic and they barely have time to snap a few shots in the hotel’s grand ballroom, lit up and decorated like a Parisian night with crystal chandeliers and an Eiffel Tower.

“Aw. What a shame,” Steve laments with a shake of his head, twisting out of Natasha’s reach and ducking away to ‘make sure the kitchen has his gluten-free, dairy-free, vegetarian plate’. Actually, he hides in the hallway and checks the train schedule.

He allows himself a ten minute Tumblr and Pinterest break before he heads inside to find their table. Through announcements ( _“Don’t forget to vote for King and Queen!”_ ) and dinner and dessert, Steve soaks up the good food and better company. While he isn’t wholly convinced it’ll be a night to remember above all other nights he’s spent with them, he enjoys it for what it is.

And then the lights go down, and the dance floor opens up.

At first, his friends take turns keeping him company, as if taking shifts to ensure he isn’t alone. It’s a kind gesture, if not miserable and frustrating. Steve assures them that he’s okay, that dancing is hard on his knees and back, that he can take his hearing aid out if the music gets to be too much. He’s fine, really. Doesn’t need a babysitter, certainly doesn’t need pity, he’s content sitting here and watching their purses, thank you very much.

He’s got a good view of the room, too. It’s the artist in him that finds people-watching calming and inspiring, especially bodies in motion. If the strobe lights weren’t going to give him a migraine, he’d sketch a couple things on his phone with the stylus he carries around for when the arthritis in his fingers starts acting up. The girl with purple hair and a short silver dress, sneaking drinks from the flask tucked into her thigh garter. The couple doing an incredibly well-rehearsed salsa. The teachers with earplugs in, regarding the DJ booth sourly. The group of guys who seem to be on every sports team, openly ignoring their dates in favour of screaming rap lyrics at each other.

One of those guys, the odd one out who doesn’t seem to be screaming or particularly interested in his date, hangs back to the outer edges of the crowd with his hands shoved into the pockets of his trousers; the look of casual indifference. Slicked-back hair, pouty mouth, a jawline that could cut glass… Even in the dark, Bucky Barnes is stupidly difficult to tear his eyes away from.

They’d been in a handful of classes together and were both honour roll students, but that’s where their commonalities ended. They’ve probably spoken all of two words to each other in four years, and are so far out of each other’s social circles that they might as well be from different schools. Not that Bucky’s a bad guy or anything. They just don’t cross paths. He’s a star athlete, speaks three languages, competes in robotics competitions for fun, and plays piano like an angel. Rumour has it, he’s been scouted for sports and science scholarships by half a dozen schools on the other side of the country. He was voted ‘Biggest Flirt’, ‘Best Hair’, and ‘Most Likely to Become President’—a nod to his ridiculous first and middle name, though admittedly carrying some truth to it. With charisma and a face like that, no nation would stand a chance.

Steve ruminates on Bucky’s possible political affiliations a little longer than he means to, because Bucky suddenly turns and makes eye contact and the phone falls from Steve’s hands and onto the floor.

“Fuck.” When he reaches down for it, his glasses slip down his nose, and the moment of blurred vision has him knocking his head against the table when he comes back up. By the time he settles back into his chair, adjusting his glasses and rubbing at the sore spot on his forehead, Bucky is looking at him with wide eyes and a barely concealed grin, biting his lip and making it as red as his bowtie.

Something twists in his stomach, like panic tempered with annoyance. He scowls and turns away, holding his phone in front of his face as though he could hide behind it.

Scrolling through social media holds his attention well enough for a while. He flits back and forth between the table and the bar, using the excuse that all the ginger ale has caught up to him and he has to find the restrooms when Peggy corners him. She takes his seat and pulls her aching feet out of her high heels, only directing him after he promises he’ll dance with her once before the night ends.

“I’ll only hurt your feet worse, y’know.” Steve threatens.

“I had three goals this year,” She smiles primly. “Beat Maria for class president, make valedictorian, and get you on the dance floor.”

He snorts. “The first two were the easy ones, Carter.”

Steve squints against the bright lights of the lavish hotel lobby and shuffles down a long hallway, following the signs to the men’s room. With its chrome interior, dim lighting, and ridiculous stalls that look more like walk-in closets, it seems more like a nightclub than a place to use the toilet. Mercifully, it’s empty. He doesn’t actually need to pee, and hanging around there on his phone is a lot easier to do alone.

He leans against a sink and has several blissful moments of peace until the sound of the door opening startles him and has his shoulders clenching up. Making eye contact in a restroom is definitely a social faux pas, but he can’t help but glance over when he realizes the other person is simply standing there, and hasn’t made any moves to head to the urinals.

“Oh.” Steve says eloquently, looking up at a slightly bewildered Bucky. “Uh, hey.”

“Hey.” He replies tightly, still just standing there, regarding Steve like a wild animal he’s afraid of scaring off. “I’m Bucky.”

Steve blinks owlishly. “I know.” Bucky’s cheeks pink up. Was that weird to say? “Um. I’m Steve.”

“Yeah,” He takes a deep breath. “You are.”

Steve briefly wonders if he’s having a stroke, or if Bucky is having a panic attack. There aren’t many other explanations for the uncomfortably confusing conversation they’re having. Steve clears his throat and tries again. “I should probably head back,” He tries to sidestep around Bucky, but is stopped with a large, warm hand around his wrist.

“Wait—” Bucky says, strained like he didn’t want to say it in the first place. “Hang on, I gotta—this is not how I expected this to go, I swear—”

“Huh?” Steve’s brow furrows. “Expected _what_ to go?”

Bucky’s grip on his wrist loosens marginally, but the pleading look in his eyes keeps Steve pinned in place anyway. “I had a whole speech planned out, but as soon as I saw you, I forgot every damn word.”

Maybe Bucky’s the one having a stroke.

“It’s okay, pal.” Steve says placatingly. “I can go get your friends if you…” The rest of the words are lost to him when Bucky takes a half step closer, their chests nearly touching. He’s probably got a good six inches on Steve, but it feels like more in this dizzying moment.

“Bucky?” It comes out a lot breathier than Steve meant it to, and he’d cringe if he weren’t so busy trying to decipher the look in Bucky’s eyes.

“I knew it.” He murmurs.

“Huh?”

If Steve didn’t know any better, that might be a smile tugging at Bucky’s lips.

“You have…” He looks over Steve evaluatingly. “Freckles up close.”

“Well, they’re all over. I’m covered with them.” He says challengingly. Why did he say that? Now he’s blushing. Great.

This seems to be the point at which Bucky comes to his senses, lets go of Steve’s arm, and wipes his hand on his pants. But curiously, he doesn’t step back. It occurs to him that Bucky isn’t so much embarrassed as he is shy, maybe _nervous_ , which is fine as Steve is embarrassed enough for the both of them.

“Are you drunk?” He mutters, knowing full well Bucky isn’t. He’s more than close enough to smell his minty breath and the sharpness of his cologne.

“No.” He sighs. “You wouldn’t take me seriously, and it’s way too cliche. I mean, confessing a four-year crush on prom night is already a little much, probably shouldn’t add to it by puking on your shoes—”

“A ‘four-year’ _what?”_ Steve’s voice suddenly sounds a lot higher than a moment ago. “Are you fucking—”

They all but jump apart when the door opens again. A guy breezes past them and Steve has half a mind to bolt, but turns to the sinks and gives his hands a thorough washing to pass the time while he tries to come to grips with whatever the hell is happening.

Bucky, to his credit, doesn’t leave either. He stands there with one hand shoved into his pocket, the other combing through his hair. He catches Steve’s eyes in the mirror and gives a tense, apologetic smile.

After their unexpected visitor rinses his hands off, he nods at them both in silent acknowledgement before leaving. As soon as the door shuts behind him, Steve faces Bucky again with his arms folded over his chest.

“Is this a stupid end-of-year prank?”

“Jesus, Steve, you think I’d do that?”

“I… Don’t know.” He frowns. Bucky never struck him as cruel, from the (very) little Steve knows of him. Which brings him to his next point. “We don’t know each other. So, I wouldn’t know.”

Bucky ducks his head, chewing the inside of his cheek in thought. The strange restroom lighting does great things for his bone structure. When he straightens back up, he regards Steve with a steady look. “In ninth grade, we had science together. You threw up when we had to dissect fetal pigs—”

“I have a sensitive stomach!” He protests.

“—Tenth grade, you painted the mural on the second floor and got kicked off the debate team for punching someone in the face—”

“Alright, fair.” Steve grunts. “They were capitalist scumbags, anyway.”

“—Last year, you started the Youth Embracing Sexualities club and missed two months of school because you got double pneumonia—”

He blushes furiously. He only told his teachers and friends, how did Bucky know?

“—And this year,” Bucky takes a step towards him again. Back in his personal space. Breathing easily was always hit or miss for Steve, but it’s significantly harder with icy grey eyes on him, keeping him pressed against a sink that digs painfully into his lower back.

“This year, you started working at Michael’s. You got into NYU. We took all the same history classes and you’ve been the only one to consistently get a higher mark than me.”

Steve gulps. “Thanks for noticing.” He says sarcastically.

The little shit, Bucky smirks and leans in. “That’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He says, gentler now, taking Steve’s hand. “I’ve noticed, Rogers. I’ve always noticed you. How could I not? You’re talented, cute, smart, tough, a special kind of fiery. It just took me a while to get the nerve to do something about it. You gotta believe me.”

A traitorous curl of arousal simmers in his groin, almost enough to distract him from his uncertainty and disbelief.

“Why now?” Steve blurts out, tightening his cold, shaking fingers around Bucky’s. “Last chance to get some action before you fuck off to the west coast?” Before he leaves, like everyone else?

Bucky’s smirk softens, but he doesn’t take the bait. He just shakes his head, loosening a few strands of hair that fall delicately from behind his ears to frame his face. Not that Steve is trying to commit it to memory to draw later. Yeah. _Draw._

“I got three little sisters here who I love to death, a summer internship with Stark Industries, and an old Harley in my garage I’m restoring.” He smooths his thumb over the back of Steve’s hand, then slowly brings it to his mouth.

He places a kiss to Steve’s knuckles. Steve doesn’t even try not to shiver.

“I chose NYU. I’m not going anywhere.”

“Shit.” Steve whispers.

Bucky chuckles, but quickly sobers up and regards Steve with that too-intense look again. “We could start getting to know each other, if you want. It’s your choice.”

Steve could argue. He chooses not to.

“Fine,” He says with a nod, for lack of a better response. And when Bucky rests his hands on Steve’s hips and asks in a small voice if he can kiss him, Steve nods a little more vigorously.

He doesn’t close his eyes when Bucky bends down and fits their lips together. Irrationally, he thinks Bucky might vanish into thin air if he does. His lips are so full and soft. _Pillowy_ , Steve might think, but never admit out loud.

It’s not his first kiss by a long shot—he’s been out since he was fourteen and has been heavy into the activist scene for years, nothing riles up queer teenagers like basic human rights—but it’s the first time he’s been handled so carefully, in a way that didn’t make him feel fragile. As tender as it is, his body feels like a livewire, like Bucky found a direct line from his mouth to his dick. It heats him through to his toes and he scrambles to grab ahold of the lapels on Bucky’s jacket, like an anchor in a storm.

Bucky kisses him slowly, deliberately, warming his lips up before he licks across the seam and encourages his mouth open. He bites down on Steve’s bottom lip and grins around his surprised moan.

So Steve bites back in retaliation, shutting his eyes and taking control of the kiss. The barest hint of Bucky’s stubble tickles his chin and cheeks, but he goes for it anyway, pulling Bucky down further and fucking into his mouth with his tongue. It might be a little clumsy,  but it gets results, because Bucky is gasping and whining and Steve wonders how many more noises he can wring out of him, just by using the element of surprise.

Eventually Bucky pulls back to catch his breath, but his hands remain, thumbs rubbing firm circles into Steve’s hip bones. “How was that?”

Steve gives him a cheeky sort of half-smile. “Not bad.” He acquiesces.

“You’re such a punk.” Bucky laughs. It’s a nice laugh, coming from a beautiful, plush mouth that tastes like gum and Coke.

Steve never thought about kissing that mouth before, because it never seemed like a reasonable possibility. Now that he knows he can, he may never stop, come hell or high water. But Bucky himself throws a wrench into those plans, because when they hear the door swing open again, he pulls Steve into a stall and locks it soundly behind them.

Embarrassingly, he’s at half mast in his suddenly too-tight trousers, and inching his way to a full salute with Bucky pressed tightly against him, sandwiching him against the stall door. “Shh.” Bucky’s breath is hot against his ear, which not helping the situation at all. For his sake, Steve keeps quiet, but as soon as they’re in the clear, he shoves Bucky off him.

“What, don’t wanna be seen with a guy?” He growls and juts his chin out. “Or are you ashamed of me? You talk a big game, you jerk, but I knew you didn’t have it in you to back it up.”

“Christ, will you stop being so defensive?” Bucky sighs. “I don’t want someone spreading shitty rumours about us before we figure out what we’re doing, and I don’t want to get kicked out before they announce Prom King.”

Steve pauses. The first thing, okay, understandable. The second thing?

“You’re actually so lame.” He says flatly. “I can’t believe it.”

Bucky scoffs. “Alright, believe _this_ , then.” He crowds Steve against the door again with an open-mouthed kiss, decidedly less sweet and monumentally more filthy than before. He untucks Steve’s shirt, undoes his fly, and curls his fingers around his dick in record time. Steve can’t help but thrust up into it, throwing all his shame and apprehension out the window.

“Hey, you gonna punch me if I say something nice about your junk?”

“Probably.” Steve mutters, reaching for Bucky’s collar.

“Relax,” He says against Steve’s lips, amused. “It’s just that it’s a hell of a lot bigger than I imagined, that’s all—”

He imagined it? Steve decides to analyze that later. He tugs Bucky’s bowtie loose, popping a button in the process, and latches onto the newly exposed skin.

“Easy, tiger,” Bucky says helplessly, then straight up _whimpers_ when Steve scrapes his teeth down the side of his neck. His grip on Steve’s cock tightens. “God, Stevie, I wanna… Please say you’ll let me…”

“Yeah,” Steve’s doesn’t even know what he’s agreeing to, but it’s enthusiastic nevertheless. “Whatever you want.”

What he wants, apparently, is to drop to his knees in a bathroom stall. Deliriously, Steve wonders about the last time he trimmed downstairs.

“ _Ohmyholyfucking—_ ”

Bucky’s mouth is hot and wet around him and he’s looking up at Steve with bright, desperate eyes. Steve’s thighs tremble, threatening to give out. He isn’t even taking all of it and yet, it’s too much. The past fifteen minutes have been too much. Bucky starts hollowing his cheeks and bobbing his head and making obscene slurping sounds, and it’s a losing battle to keep from shooting off.

Then he catches sight of Bucky grinding against the heel of his own hand, eyes falling shut and moaning around Steve’s cock. He loves this. He’s getting off on it.

Steve is only mortal.

He takes fistfuls of Bucky’s hair and rides it out, yelping a word of warning before he throws his head back and spills down Bucky’s throat with a groan. Bucky keeps sucking at him gently, only pulling off when Steve starts to shudder and flick him on the forehead.

He tucks Steve back into his pants and unsteadily gets to his feet, having no business looking so beautiful with come and drool dripping down his chin.

“Thanks.” Bucky says hoarsely, that shit-eating grin back on his face.

Steve feels around for his inhaler, then chokes out an incredulous “You’re welcome?” before the door, maddeningly, opens again.

“Barnes? You in here?”

They both freeze.

After a beat, Bucky coughs. “Yeah?”

“You good, man?”

“Uh,” Bucky runs a hand over his face, then frowns at his wet, sticky palm. “Yeah, sorry, I’ll be out in a few.”

“Now, dude, they’re announcing King and Queen!” The door opens and shuts once more.

Bucky mouths a vehement _‘fuck’_ before ducking down to give Steve one last sweaty, bitter kiss. “Talk after?” Then he’s throwing the stall door open and rushing out of the restroom, leaving Steve alone with his thoughts and an overeager prick that’s making a valiant effort to get hard again.

He splashes cold water on his face and hurries back to the ballroom. By the time he weaves through the crowd and reaches his table, all the Prom King nominees are gathered on the stage.

“Hey guys, did I miss it?” He huffs, sliding into his seat.

His friends fix him with a curious look.

“Since when do you care about prom court?” Sam mumbles.

“I… Don’t.” Steve replies mildly, turning in his seat to see the stage, anyway.

Natasha leans closer to him, taking in his dishevelled appearance. “What happened to you?”

“What took you so long?” The concern in Peggy’s voice is touching, but he can’t even begin to explain.

“I fell.” Steve says neutrally. His glasses are slightly askew and he doesn’t bother to fix them. “Slippery hallway.”

Whatever she says next is drowned out by a cheering crowd. There are five guys on the stage, with sashes and winning smiles. All impeccably pressed and dressed, save for Bucky, who’s bowtie is hanging on by a thread. He’s sporting a hickie the size of Texas, and has the ruffled hair and bruised mouth telltale of someone who recently engaged in illicit activities in a public toilet.

Naturally, he wins, takes the crown, and blushes endearingly at the catcalls and wolf-whistles he receives. Steve tries to clap politely and with complete indifference, despite knowing Bucky fucking Barnes is looking debauched and giving a speech with dickbreath because of him.

Steve is a little embarrassed. Mostly smug. Slightly aroused.

Lorraine wins Queen, to the surprise of no one, and they dance to _This Magic Moment_. She looks stunning in her gold dress, hair swept to the side under her crown. Steve can easily pretend he’s looking at her when he’s actually watching Bucky, twirling her in circles and swaying like The Drifters made the song for him. There’s no hiding the sweat on his brow under the spotlights, nor the swollen lips that stretch into an easy grin over blindingly white teeth. He whispers something into Lorraine’s ear that has her tilting her head back and laughing, glances over her shoulder at Steve, and throws him a wink.

He rolls his eyes in return and can’t even find it in him to be jealous, he hadn’t been in the past and can’t think of a reason to start now. Not when he knows Bucky is keeping his mouth a safe distance from her nose for reasons that have Steve disguising a giggle with a rough cough.

Half an hour goes by of Steve artfully dodging questions about his mysterious disappearance before he realizes he’s going to miss his train. He says his goodbyes, glances over to where Bucky is still celebrating with his friends, and heads out.

The crisp night air brings a jarring sense of clarity to him. Surely, it was a one-off thing. Happened in the heat of the moment. They got carried away because they’re emotional, hormonal teenagers, and that’s the kind of shit that happens on prom night. That’s all. At the very least, it’ll be an interesting story to share one day, should anyone believe it.

Steve isn’t disappointed, nor suddenly too cold.

He doesn’t check his phone until he’s nearing the subway station, and realizes he’s got a Facebook friend request from a _James B. Barnes_. There are also a string of messages from him ( _‘Didn't wanna dance with me, Stevie? Coulda warned a guy!’)_ that end with asking if Steve is going to any afterparties, or if he’d like to come up to his hotel room instead. To ‘finish talking’. Bucky uses smiley faces like punctuation, which should not be so cute. And yet.

Steve slows down, then stops walking altogether.

Okay. Maybe there’s something there, after all. Not that it’s a big deal or anything. Whatever.

He shoots his mom a text saying he’s staying at Sam’s for the night, turns on his heel, and heads back the way he came. He is definitely not smiling to himself like a fucking loon.

Steve does allow one ‘prom’ photo, in the end. It happens the morning after, at brunch, with his friends howling at his Walk of Shame, Bucky’s arm slung over his shoulders. It’s not very flattering and his face is a bright, splotchy red that matches his neck, but it’s a memory he doesn’t mind keeping for a while.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so sorry about the title.
> 
> this is the first fic in a long series of stucky meetcutes, because they deserve it and mcu canon is dead to me. hit me up with your prompts on [tumblr](http://recalibrates.tumblr.com/)!


	2. Epilogue

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just because.

“Go.”

Steve pretends he doesn’t hear him.

 _“Go.”_ Bucky growls.

“Already? Do I have to?” Steve mutters petulantly.

Bucky takes his hands off Steve's hips and gives him a firm pat on the ass. “Yep.”

Steve sighs, pulls away from him, and quickly weaves through the crowd. He isn’t graceful about it, but at least he doesn’t trip. He isn’t halfway to Peggy’s table when she spots him, and he can’t help but drop his pout and smile back at her. She just has one of those smiles, you know? Contagious.

He stands at her side, holding out a hand and giving her a significant look.

“May I have this dance?”

Peggy laughs as she slips her hand into his.

He leads her onto the floor when the music changes to something softer, slower, something they both laugh at when they recognize it. 

Etta James croons tenderly in the background of the Barnes-Rogers wedding reception when Peggy finally gets the dance Steve promised her seven years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song, obviously, is "at last" :^)
> 
> send me your stucky meet-cute prompts on [tumblr](http://recalibrates.tumblr.com)!


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